


breathing room

by Archaeopteryx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders Positive, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Justice Positive, Multi, Other, Panic Attacks, Polyamorous Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6735739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryx/pseuds/Archaeopteryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quiet moments with Hawke and companions, in the time to breathe between running errands and rescues. Reassurances, promises, questions asked and not always answered.</p><p>They're a team, but they're family, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the space between having and knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Hawke and Justice help Anders through a panic attack.

He froze, choking on panic, his heart pounding furious drumbeats against his ribs, his breaths roaring in his ears. The taste of blood crawled up the back of his throat. He couldn’t tell if it was real or remembered. His hands twitched out towards Hawke, before fear caught up with him, and he flinched, tucking his wrists up tight against his chest. _Hands down, mage._

Justice flared, roaring in protective fury. The knot in Anders’s chest twisted, catching tight on the jagged edges of years spent struggling. Seven times he’d run and seven times he’d been dragged back in chains, saved at last only by a Warden’s convenience, and maybe his phylactery was gone now but sometimes he thought he could still feel it tugging on his blood. Sometimes he thought this was only number eight, that he’d been allowed to run and have this to make the lesson all the sharper when they finally came for him once more –

Hawke’s hands found his shoulders, and pressed down, heavy, solid, warm. Anders shuddered, leaning into the touch. “Breathe,” Hawke said. Anders tried, but couldn’t stop his chest from seizing. Hawke squeezed his shoulders. “More?”

Anders nodded.

Hawke drew him into a close hug, their arms around his back, careful to brush Anders’s hands aside to keep from trapping them. “Easy,” they murmured, rubbing slow circles between his shoulderblades. “Shh. Hush now, I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

He made it through one long breath, shakily out, then shakily back in. Then he broke, crumpling into Hawke’s arms, pressing his face into their shoulder with a sob.

Justice hummed at the back of his mind, reminding him that they trusted Hawke, that Hawke was safe and always stood by what was right. It won him another stuttering breath before the fear crashed in once more.

Hawke tightened their hold, still rubbing circles into his back. One hand slid up to tangle in Anders’s hair, until he flinched – he liked Hawke touching his hair, normally, but bad memories welled up too close for comfort; hair grabbed, forcing his face into dust or dirt or cold stone, knee on his back, sword at his neck, hands pinned or bound, _one wrong move, mage, one wrong move_ – “You’re okay,” said Hawke gently, dropping their hand and returning to rubbing Anders’s back. “You’re safe. What’s wrong?”

“Can’t,” he choked. “You – they take – ”

“Karl?” asked Hawke.

Anders jerked, found Hawke’s waist and fisted his hands in their house robes until his bones ached, until the shaking was more from effort than from terror. Justice growled, a distant thunder-rumble with the smell of ozone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Hawke. “And nobody’s taking you, either, okay? I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

 _Good_ , hummed Justice in fierce approval.

Anders fought for breath, let the heavy pressure of Hawke’s hold bring him down. “But – ”

He didn’t have words for the panic filling up his lungs. _What if you can’t? What if they take you anyway?_

“Over. My. Dead. Body.” Hawke tensed, their voice dropping to a growl. It was the wrong thing to say: all the breath rushed out of Anders at once in a hysterical wheeze, his vision greying out, high-pitched ringing overwhelming anything else Hawke might have said.

They were on the floor when the attack faded, Hawke sitting cross-legged, Anders’s legs sprawled out across the cold stone. “N-n-no,” he stuttered, “no, no, no – ”

“Hey, hush, sorry,” Hawke murmured. Their hands slid down Anders’s back, smoothing out the knots over his spine. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that – I would do damn near anything to protect you. I’ll put myself between you and them, every time. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt me, either.”

 _What if you can’t stop them?_ Anders thought. Karl, first-love, Harrowed with a Tranquil brand for nothing more than letters and suspicion – the face morphed to Hawke’s in his mind’s eye, sparking fury that was all his own. He bunched his shoulders and hissed through his teeth, pressing his forehead against Hawke’s neck. “They will never take you,” he snarled. “Not while I live to stop them. I won’t let them.”

Hawke hummed, low and affirmative. “You neither, alright? Listen, we know Templars. They slap down a Silence and expect a mage to keel over. Like they forget we can use regular weapons, too.” Hawke chuckled, grinning toothily. “Remember Karras? The look on his face when I stabbed him? Beautiful. We can fight them. We will, if they come for us. If they threaten you, well, I did promise you the Knight-Commander’s head.”

Anders smiled, glass-sharp and shaky. “You’re right at that, love. Careful with the head, though. The way Meredith glares at you I worry sometimes you’ll turn to stone.”

“Ha!” Hawke turned their head, nuzzling into Anders’s temple. “I’ll keep it in a bag to use on my enemies.” Their amused huff ruffled Anders’s hair; they sobered quickly, pressing their cheek against his. “I’ve got you, alright? Nobody hurts you. Never, ever again.” Their hands swept down Anders’s spine, heavy, soothing, then back up to circle over his shoulders, then down. “I’ll protect you. Justice, too, right?”

 _Yes._ The spirit’s agreement sent calm shivering through Anders’s chest, easing the tightness of his lungs, letting him breathe. When Justice was certain of a thing, they were absolutely certain of it, in a way that calmly filled the space any argument might take. Justice would not allow Anders to be hurt. More importantly, they trusted Hawke to keep Anders safe, and for a spirit with a low opinion of mortals overall, that meant a lot.

“Alright,” said Anders. The simple admission lit a gentle warmth inside his chest. “I love you, Hawke. More than – more than I can say. Than either of us have words for.”

“That’s okay. – Pick you up?”

Anders nodded. Hawke grinned, and scooped up his knees with their other arm; Anders didn’t quite mean to, but he grabbed their shoulder when they stood, alarmed by the shifting of the room around them. _Undignified_ , grumbled Justice, but there was an amused glow behind it.

“I love you, too!” said Hawke brightly, shifting their grip to better kiss Anders’s cheek. They paused, cocked their head, laughed, and said again, “Love you too!”

Rarely enough, Justice got the joke first – though they were often better at wordplay than Anders, and it was half a reference to them. _Love you two._

They laughed at that, soft and safe, leaning their head against Hawke's shoulder. “We love you, too, Hawke. – we love you too.”


	2. the space between speech and action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Champion or not, Hawke is still one person, struggling to keep an entire city from collapsing in on its own corruption.
> 
> Justice reminds them that matters.
> 
> prompt fill: Justice/Hawke, things you said too quietly; things you didn’t say at all. Set mid-Act 3.

“It’s not – ” Hawke cried, then choked, “f-fair – ”

Their voice gave out altogether. Their furious gestures cut off as they buried their face in their hands, and broke into – shit, shit, fucking fuck – heaving sobs. In front of Anders, who lived in Darktown; in front of Justice who was made to fight tooth and nail all the things Hawke was supposed to and couldn’t see how; what could Hawke say that wasn’t trivial and stupid compared to what they’d seen and done? But here they were crying anyway, and fuck -- fuck -- fuck.

Arms around their shoulders – too stiff and angular to be Anders, even without the rush of Fade energy that hit them like a Qunari waraxe. Hawke crumpled, burying their face in Justice’s chest, digging their hands into their coat.

“It is not,” said Justice quietly, simply.

'Life isn’t fair,' Malcolm and Leandra had said, sighing in fond exasperation. Unsaid: Accept it. This is the way things are. Don’t waste your time and breath and energy. You’ll understand when you’re older.

This was not that. Justice hummed with tension, frustration and anger barely restrained. 'It is not fair,' they said, and left unspoken, but it should be.

“S-sorry,” Hawke stuttered, but they pressed closer into Justice’s chest anyway. Their friend had enough on their shoulders without carrying Hawke as well, but Hawke needed the comfort and couldn’t make themself pull away. “Sorry – sorry – ”

Justice said nothing; stood firm and held Hawke tightly until the fit subsided. “You need not apologize,” they said, once Hawke could breathe again. “Your anger shows you care. Too many in this city do not.”

“You deserve better,” said Hawke fiercely. Their fists clenched again, this time with their own burnt-out frustration. “You deserve better. Anders deserves better. Merrill deserves better. Bethy, Karl, Feynriel, Grace, Alain, Helena … ”

They went on until they ran out of names, trailing off with a furious growl. Those they could still help, if they only knew how; those long out of reach, who they couldn’t help and never would.

“Yes,” said Justice. Simple, matter-of-fact, truthful. They rested their chin on Hawke’s head, and let out a sigh that ruffled their hair. “As do you,” they added, barely a breath behind the words, spoken into the air above Hawke’s head. Hawke wasn’t sure they had been meant to hear.

'You’re beautiful,' they thought, and didn’t say. Justice’s presence dazzled even when Hawke wasn’t literally pressed up against them; this close, it felt like staring into the sun, with none of the pain and all of the pretty afterimages. 'Thank you,' followed close on the first thought’s heels: Justice was fair above all else, and Hawke forgot too easily that their care for their friends ran both ways. 'I love you,' they thought last, and that at least they knew how to deal with.

“Can I kiss you?” they asked. Justice withdrew a little, blinking down at them.

“ … Why?”

Hawke shrugged. “I want to.”

Justice inclined their head, considering. “Yes,” they said, after a moment. Hawke grinned, and reached up to pull them down.

It felt like kissing a star, like breathing in the Fade, everything brilliant and vivid enough to drown them in color. Even behind their closed eyelids, Justice’s lightning shone electric blue; beneath that, steadying and stable, warmth, softness, the prickle of stubble against Hawke’s cheeks and the softness of their feathers, their hair in Hawke’s hands, their arms around Hawke’s shoulders.

Hawke couldn’t stop smiling when they pulled away, so much they thought their face might crack. Justice’s expression was weaker, but to Hawke’s Fade-sense they glowed, steady and calmer like a lighthouse beacon. They didn’t let go, not yet; they butted their forehead against Justice’s firmly.

“You are good,” they said, putting as much weight into the word as they could. “A good friend.” Woefully inadequate, for the ideas they wanted – 'I love you; you are bright; you are safe; you have my fire and my staff and my strength for as long as you want them.' But close enough to carry the meaning, they hoped.

“I … am glad to be.” There was a sudden stiffness to Justice’s voice that made Hawke squint, a thread of worry creeping into their euphoria. No matter, they decided quickly; or, probably matter, but Justice and Anders would tell them when the time was right.

Hawke’s faith in them would hold true, no matter what.


	3. the space between fear and friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke take a walk on a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a section of a larger (planned) fic that, realistically, isn't gonna get finished; I thought it deserved to see daylight.

The sun baked Hightown’s stonework, radiant heat making the warm summer day almost comfortable for Fenris. The breeze of the past few days had shifted, blowing cool, fresh air off Sundermount rather than the humid, sewage-stinking miasma that normally swept up from Lowtown. A few clouds spotted the sky, providing occasional relief from the glare. It might rain that night, but the possibility was far-off.

In short, it was much too nice out for Fenris to be twitchy and aching, plagued by shadows at the edge of his vision; but his memories had never been considerate with their timing.

Hawke showed up outside the mansion with their uncanny knack for guessing when Fenris was having a bad day. After few minutes of wary indecision, he went out to meet them. “I was around,” they said, shrugging at the question Fenris hadn't asked. “Wanna go for a walk?”

As much as Fenris was ready to barricade himself in the cellar and drink until he couldn't see straight, let alone think, he liked the idea of getting some sun. So he shrugged, strapped his greatsword to his back, and set out into the street with his shoulders squared as if every cobblestone and city sparrow were an enemy.

He took the lead without a word. Hawke fell into step a little behind him, an armspan to his right. Neither of them spoke, but Fenris guessed Hawke had half expected this: they didn't really “walk” so much as “patrol”, circling in an expanding perimeter around the mansion.

The heat loosened his shoulders and back, easing the ache of the lyrium under his skin. The light burned the shadows out of his peripheral vision. As he found his rhythm, his stride lengthened, stretching into something fluid and predatory, a pace he knew he could keep for hours if he had to. When he glanced aside, Hawke had the same pace: heavier, more like a piece of moving stonework themself, but still the kind of stride that scattered passersby like pigeons. They glared viciously at the human nobles giving Fenris dirty looks over their shoulders. Not that he cared — but it lit an odd kind of warmth in his chest that Hawke did.

His nerves steadied; his anxiety eased. Movement, warmth, light — things that made sense, that were reliably safe. Less certain, but — he thought — still reassuring, Hawke's stocky weight at his side. His bare feet gripped the pavement; the sun beat down overhead. He slowed his pace, allowing Hawke to walk beside him. “So,” he said, “what brings you to my part of Hightown?”

Hawke flashed a grin and launched into a long story, involving an increasingly elaborate string of errands run for Varric and Isabela — with the amount of time Hawke spent around the Hanged Man, Fenris sometimes wondered why they had bothered to move up to Hightown at all. He listened with half an ear, prompting when it seemed appropriate. He didn't have the concentration to make sense of the story, but Hawke's chatter kept his mind in the present and his nerves at ease.

As they left the market square and swung back out into the less-populated side streets, Hawke reached for his hand.

Fenris recoiled even before the stab of pain registered, springing aside to put his back against a wall. Hawke startled, staring at him with a worried frown. The sun overpowered any other light, but he knew his lyrium glowed, burning white-hot under his skin. His heart thudded loud in his ears.

Hawke made no move. They blinked at Fenris, opened their mouth, then glanced down at their own hand and blanched.

“Maker I'm so sorry,” they said quickly. They drew back, raising their hands. “I wasn't thinking. Are you alright?”

Slowly, the gears of Fenris’s mind caught up to the present. “I'm — fine,” he said stiffly. He dropped out of his defensive crouch, but did nothing to suppress the lyrium glow. Just in case.

“Oh. Uh, good.” Hawke grinned — sheepish, placating. It didn't fit their face. “I — I didn't mean to scare you. I'm really sorry.”

Fenris bristled — scared? He didn't do “scared”. Startled, hostile, wary, yes: not scared. But Hawke was sincere enough, so he shoved down the urge to snap and asked, “Why?”

Hawke blinked at him, cocking their head like their namesake. “Because … you're my friend? And I don't want you to be scared? And, I know you don't like touching, but I wasn't thinking and I did anyway.”

‘Friend’.

Huh.

He filed that thought away for later. For now, he shrugged. With the sun's warmth on his back, the movement barely hurt. “It's fine.”

Hawke frowned, but nodded, looking away down the street. “Shall we keep going?”

“Let's.”


End file.
